Speak 2
by Noxstarr
Summary: Melinda returns to Merryweather high for her sophomore year. Unfortunately for her, everyone knows of her painful secret. Does this knowledge help Melinda grow as a person, a daughter…a friend? Or will the pressures of it all cause her to just not speak.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Speak. The author of Speak is Laurie Halse Anderson.

Author note: Hello readers! As you can see I really enjoy Speak, (hint: fan fiction) I love the format of it, the style and the witty, dark humor. I'm aiming to write a good, interesting, and funny, part 2 to the original book of Speak, and this is my attempt. Please review.

**WELCOME BACK MERRYWEATHER HIGH**

It is my first morning of high school. My sophomore year. I have seven new notebooks, a sketch- pad, charcoal pencils, and a mild stomachache.

Its weird not having to wait at my corner for the wheezing school bus. I grew fond of it. It was the one thing that never let me down. It always showed up at eight 'o clock time, never changed its route, or took a detour, always went the same path. Pretty predictable. Too bad I'm not referring to my life.

Mom decides it best to escort me to school today. She's worried.

I want to tell her I'm fine. I can take the bus, go on to work they need her, but I don't. I can't. My throat feels on fire again. It feels sore like before. I'm scared, or maybe just selfish. Either way they both fit hand in hand, right? I could be both.

Mom: "How you are feeling sweetheart? Are you nervous?" [Tightens grip on steering- wheel, knuckles turns white, shifts in seat.]

Me:

She looks more nervous then I feel. I want to reverse the question on her. I doubt she'll take it well. If there's one lesson I learned, (and quickly, might I add) never infuriate her while she anxious. It'll just end badly.

Mom: "Melinda, look at me."

Oh no she uses that voice again. That voice that says "do what I say, or face the consequences." When I was a kid, she used that voice a lot; last year she did it too. I do as she says, I look at her. I don't want mom to repeat herself, I don't want to be dragged back to the past. I look at her, but do I talk? …No

Mom: "You can do this."

I nod my head once. The encouragement is a fresh start. A great way to kick-off the school year. I would have preferred it on a post-it, but I guess vocalizing is just as good. I wouldn't mind Scat singing… that might be interesting. I'll definitely listen.

I arrive at Merryweather high in good timing. Mom wanted to walk me to the front door, but I told her not to. I'm glad she's taking an initiative to empathize with me, not so glad the empathy goes overboard. I think I can manage without the dramatics. I feel safer without it. It's scary. I'm trying not to feel scared anymore,

She complicates that.

The older kids (which includes me this year) are allowed to wonder the halls until the bell rings. I don't. I can't. There are too many people around, and they're all staring at me.

I'm the female lion with the leg injury. Chow food.

The end of last year wasn't so bad. People talked to me, but now….

Its like they're all waiting for something. Something for me to say, do, even. I lower my eyes to my fingers nails. I'm mute today.

I feel a tap on my shoulder, Its Rachel/Rachelle. Last year, I wanted more then anything to talk to her again. She use to be my best friend, until the party, the day I called cops, the day my life changed… forever. Things that were fun weren't so fun for me anymore; sleep was the core of my existence, my hobby, my friend, and my enemy. Where was Rachel? I needed her. My throat burns.

Rachel/Rachelle: "Um…So sophomores huh?"

Me:

Rachel/Rachelle: "How come I didn't hear from you during the summer? I called."

She glares at me, intensity in her eyes, and redness in her face. Is she mad again? Do I care? Maybe I should talk. An argument is definitely no way to start the day. I have no strength for it. My palms sweat.

Me: "I was really busy."

I expected her to call me a lair, a freak, but she doesn't. Her head hangs low; she looks like she's ready to cry. If this was a movie I'll be the villain.

She smiles. It's not a fake smile like the one I've been practicing all year round (and perfected by the way), but a genuine one, honest. I frown and lowered my glaze. Yup, I'm undeniably the bad guy.

She's yabbering away. I try to pay attention, except I keep missing big glops of it, it goes something like this: "Mel, I blah blah blah, you know?" "It was so blah blah blah" "Maybe we should Blah blah blah sometime?"

What am I suppose to say to that? I try to listen harder. Tuning things out is like second nature to me, besides the habit of lip slaughtering and nail mangling.

Rachel/Rachelle: "I want to be your friend again."

Apparently I've been sent to an asylum, I must be drugged. There! I see it! The padded walls. I wonder where's the nurse with my food, I'm hungry.

Rachel/Rachelle: "Yeah…so do you want to go? I mean I can totally understand if you say no."

Me: "What?"

Rachel/Rachelle: "Here's a better idea, lets start by sitting at lunch together."

Mr. Neck: "What are you girls still doing in the hallway? Hustle to class."

Saved by a fellow psychopath… I must be lucky

I turn to walk to class

"Sordino!" luck ran out

Mr. Neck: "Don't expect to get by in my class because of your misfortune. I want your assignments in on time and you in my class daily. No excuse. They didn't give my son an excuse for the job and he deserved it. They treat Americans like…. Why are you still staying here? Get to class!"

I run out of his sight. How can they allow him to stay here? I need to tell David Petrakis that Neck is at it again. He's smart, maybe he has an idea to get rid of him. One can only hope. Bring on the lawyer.

Mr. Neck… can you say sayonara?

**OUR TEACHERS ARE STILL THE BEST…**

Hairwoman is gone. Left. Moved. I heard she got a job teaching juvenile delinquents. Supposedly criminals get a better understanding of symbolism. I heard all corruption has a symbol—they must be pros. I bet all their crimes had a symbolic meaning to it. Hairwoman is probably jumping for joy.

I was just about to shout Hooray, then remembered I was trying to keep a low profile. And to think I wanted to be a detective— Sherlock Holmes inspiration—Arthur Conan Doyle was a good writer. If only I had a cigar…. No. Smoking pipe…way cooler.

My new English teacher at least has a face I can see. A new face. I'm glad. She won't treat me any differently; she'll just know me for me. Maybe she might think I'm a freak, but at least not a freak with a traumatic experience. I can handle that.

I make an attempt to listen in her class. I can't.

What's the next best thing? …. Clothing?

And that's just as confusing as her lesson. She wears a black and white checkered shirt, (I guess to match her black and white hair…so—Cruella De Vil), red- cropped dress pants and big brown cowboy boots. She reminds me of a Crossword puzzle; I suck at those.

I suck at a lot of things. Especially chemistry. Ms. Keen decided that teaching biology was out of her element. Get it! Quick chem. joke.

I sit in the back to watch Ms. Keen up front. She looks different. I think she lost weight. Not much, I'd say she's ten maybe fifteenth pounds lighter than before, but I wouldn't bet on it. Black can make a person look really thin. She's dressed down in it today.

I see David Petrakis, my freshman year lab partner. He notices me, I wave, and he smiles, looks down at his sneakers, and then sits up front.

I guess he wanted a change in partners. I don't blame him. I wasn't a good one.

**CENTER STAGE**

This is it. The moment I've been dreading. They're all staring at me.

Everyone heard. Everyone knows…

I rush to sit at a table, any table, and lower my head. Maybe if I pretend not to see them they'll all go away… Fat chance.

I feel someone sit beside me. It's Heather. Heather was the new girl last year— moved from Ohio. She was my only friend too, that is until she ditched me. She thought I was too depressed; her exact words were "When you get through this life-suck phase, I'm sure lots of people will want to be your friend. Look you can't eat lunch with me anymore." I wonder why she's sitting with me today? I still think life sucks. I bite my lip.

Heather: "Hey! Mel it's been a while. How are you? Don't answer that. I haven't been a very good friend, I'm sorry. I was the new girl here and you've been nothing but nice to me. "

I can't believe I ever wanted her back as a friend. She talked way too much. I prefer the silence.

Me:

Heather: "I messed up big time with the dance. They put me in charge of the decorations, remember? Oh well, yeah, and I was so close to being kicked out. And I shouldn't have stopped being your friend. That was really uncalled for. I now understand why you didn't want to help me in my time of need. I feel incredibly guilty"

If I talk will she go away?

Me: "What do you want?"

Heather: "I don't want to be a Martha anymore. They make me do all the work. Hey I have an idea. Me and you can—"

Me: "I'm not interested."

Heather: "Well what do you think _I _should do? I can't stand to be by myself. I'm so lonely."

Now she knows how it feels. I don't tell her that of course. She'll just start a scene. Probably throw something. I check to make sure she has nothing in her hands. Nope…but do I take that chance?

Me: "I'm pretty sure you'll find your place…you're you. Just… act naturally."

Heather halts in her 'I'm so lonely rant' to think about what I had just said.

Heather: "Act naturally...That's a good idea."

She looks really happy. I'm glad.

If that's all it took for some peace and quiet, and my peace of mind—then she can take my advice; I'm not using it.

I get up and sprint out of the lunchroom in a flash. All conversations stop, everyone's head pops up to look at me. I hope I don't trip. That would be embarrassing.

**SANCTUARY **

Home economics is my next class, and I feel helpless. I wanted Art with Mr. Freeman. I felt free in his class. He believed in me.

The classroom is at the far end of the building, next door to the art room. The windows are small, but the breeze coming from it is pretty intense. The room had to be facing in the coldest direction, because the sun is nowhere in sight. If it wasn't for the ceiling lights, I doubt I'll be able to see my own hand. Everything in the classroom looks neat. No dust, no dirt, no nothing. Everything is in order. I want to scorch the floor with my sneakers. Get a few crumbs on the table. This has to be the cleanest place in the entire school. And I don't like it.

I'm late to get a seat so I park besides David Petrakis. He starts fidgeting. I look for an extra seat I might've missed. There is none. Sorry David…. but it looks like your stuck with me. A small smile forms on my lips. I'm evil.

Mr. Copper is good-looking. Tall and dark with fiery eyes that glowed and pierced, a wealth of black hair, and a nose that is straight and charming. He looks flawless. He walks in circles around the room like a Victoria secrets model on a runway. I would've compared it to a vulture circling its prey but even that wouldn't have come close.

Then he pauses, broadcasting a regal certainty. Scratch model. He must be a king.

He puts a hand under his chin "Is this my economics class?" he asks.

Everyone gawks at him. Scratch king. His voice sounds like he has a mouth full of paper.

"I guess this is my class, everyone that is here belongs here…right?" A few people from the back shout "No, we don't belong here!" "We're your free period!" "You sound weird, Are you from outta space?"

He ignores them all and pretends not to hear anything.

Mr. Copper: "I transferred from Laker's High school in Huron county, Michigan."

"I heard that Andy Evans goes there now!" "I heard he had to repeat his whole twelfth grade year again."

Laughter suddenly fillers the room and I can't breathe. I open the window wider and inhale. David brow furrows, he looks concerned. I exhale slowly and wipe the blood from my lips. My head hurts. And I'm so ready to leave for the day. Cutting school on the first day might be considered bad, but when it comes to my health, I like to reconsider.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Speak. The author of Speak is Laurie Halse Anderson.

Author note: Hello readers! I loved David in Speak and was pretty upset that his and Melinda's relationship hadn't evolved into something more...So my job is to change that. Please keep reading, and enjoy the story.

**BREAKAWAY **

The bell rings. Finally I'm free.

While Mr. Copper/ Mr. papier-mâché was chatting up the class, my eyes had remained glued to the broken clock on the wall. I was so frustrated with the time, that I didn't even notice I was using my fingers as a chomping toy.

As I near the emergency exit, I stop. Someone's tailing me. I can feel it. My heart is running into over-drive. I dribble between a crowd of freakishly tall jocks, and shoot behind a secluded corner.

There's no one there. A small laugh escapes my lips. Maybe I should call mom, tell her to schedule me for a therapist, because I'm losing it.

I reposition the book bag strap on my arm, and then brave back into the world of nightmare reality…. high school….

I reconsidered going to class, until I remembered that Mr. Neck was my next period.

My hand is on the door panel; I push to open. A breeze sweeps my hair into a frenzy. And then I hear it.

Someone's calling my name. It's David.

David: "Hey I was trying to call you. Didn't you hear me."?

Me:

David: "Here. You left this, in a rush to leave."

He hands me a sheet of paper. It has circles all over it. He looks at me and smiles, "You drew those in class."

Me: "I did?"

I was shocked. Why would I draw circles? I usually draw trees.

David: "Yeah. I guess you wouldn't know, you were kinda out of it. Are you okay Melinda, because…I…you…in class—"

I don't think he'll ever finish his sentence. I should help him out. Time is wasting. I'm ready to go home.

Me: "I had—I mean I have a headache."

He knows I'm lying. I can tell. But he doesn't say anything— not yet

I rush out before he can pin me as guilty. I'm not ready to stand trial. If I did, I'll probably just faint.

**HOME WORK**

I somehow survive through the first three weeks in school without being physically restrained with a straight jacket. Rachel/Rachelle spends her whole lunch period at my table, talking about her trip to France. I pretend to listen. I laugh when she laughs, nod my head whenever she says something agreeable, nod my head whenever she says something disagreeable. Easy. I kind of like it that way. There's no need to talk. Sometimes Heather sits with me on days Rachel/Rachelle has a meeting with the foreign-exchange students. I think she does it for more advice. Too bad I'm not talking. I would've told her she's wasting her time.

I think there's a game going on in school that I don't know about. Everybody's playing it. Even the teachers participate. I can't tell you the name of it—cause I don't know myself—but the objective is pretty clear—how long can you Gape at the freak? Why can't people just go back to ignoring me? I liked it better. I could handle it. Yesterday a girl with glasses was sitting directly in front of the sun, and when she took her turn to gawk at me, she literally burned a hole in my head. It's that bad. I want to move.

Mom has been pretty much the same since she found out about my traumatic experience. She takes more time off of work, asks me if I'm feeling okay about a thousand times a day, and encourages me to see a shrink.

But, Dad…not so much. At first when he found out he was worried; asking me a million and one questions— I expected that much…but after a while he started to seem cold. He doesn't talk to me much. It's like him and mom switched roles. Dad is all about work now, and mom is all about family. I have whiplash.

Mom is preparing dinners in the morning again. She sticks them in the fridge so when I come home I can eat. She says pizza is bad for me, it'll ruin my health; but I know the truth.

And the truth is— pizza is only wholesome when her or dad is home to answer the door… for the delivery _boy_.

And I thought I was paranoid. I hope the phone isn't bugged.

I lie on my bed and pretend to sleep. My room looks like a rainforest. It's peaceful. I like it. It has a dark, yet warm feel to it. I drew huge leaves that extended from the front to the far end of the room. The trunk— drawn in the center of the room— is the real masterpiece. The bark of the tree peels, revealing a new bark that is a deep red, like blood. Mom thought the image looked morbid; so I neatly placed my stuffed rabbits beneath the body of the tree to give it a more light-hearted feel. She stopped complaining. I kept the canopy bed. There was no way I was getting rid of it. Mom begged and pleaded with me to get a new one, but I told her no. The bed is a memory of my childhood. Why would I want to replace it? It was one of the best times in my life. The bed is here to stay.

I look up at the Maya Angelou poster above my bed. The color clashes with my room. But I don't care. I love it.

I get up from my bed and start pacing the room. I'm too pumped to sleep. I've been that way for a while now.

I hear the television turn on. It's dad. He's come home early today. He sees me, and then turn up the volume. I ignore his attempt to get rid of me. I lick my lips. I'm ready to talk.

Me: "Dad."

Dad: "Melinda."

Me: "Um…how was work?"

Dad: "Good, pretty good." He flips through thirty-one channels with complete concentration. A frown etched across his face. I hope it's not permanent. He looks in pain. "Don't you have homework?"

Homework? I don't do homework. But I can't tell him that. He'll just send me away. Me: "Its done."

Dad: "And your room?"

My idea of cleaning my room is to sweep it with a glance, so I nod my head yes. He looks at me for a second, ruffles my hair like he did when I was a kid, and then walks upstairs to his bedroom, and shuts the door. There's nothing like family bonding….


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Speak. The author of Speak is Laurie Halse Anderson.

Author note: Hello readers! I'm back with another chapter. Please review!

**OUR FIRST ASSIGNMENT**

I arrive late again to home economics. David looks furious. He recently lectured about the importance of responsibilities. Who would've thought he was preaching to me. I should've hid-out in the bathroom. My favorite pass time since freshman year.

Mr. Copper/ papier-mâché: "Its so nice of you to join us Miss. Sordino. You came at the perfect time. I just finished instructing the class of our first economic mission. Do you care to know what it is?

Me:

Mr. Copper/ papier-mâché: "I guess I know your answer." He walks over to his desk and crumples up a bunch of papers and violently throws them in the trashcan "Have a seat please. Mr. Petrakis can you explain to your partner the assignment."

I sit down, pretend to listen and watch papier-mâché the whole time. He kept clenching and unclenching his right hand. Chills chased down my back. It seems anyone can become a teacher in this school. I bet he has a history of violence; beat up students just for the heck of it. Probably was hired because of such short staff. The principle is desperate.

I was so worried and intrigued by our economic teacher movements that it took me a good minute to notice David's hand laying directly on top of mines. I withdrew my hand quickly and stared at him in shock. He frowned, his eyes leveled under drawn brows. I think my reaction irritated him because his expression became that of a mask of stone. I looked away swiftly at the sight of his scowl before turning back around with a false smile.

Me: "Sorry— I just…"

David: "Don't explain. You know what Melinda— I'm tired of this. I thought you'd see me differently, as a friend. I'm not going to… hurt you."

I bite my lip hard and the blood seeps into my mouth. I can't talk.

David: "Will you ever trust me?"

I swallowed, my lips tremor "Yes. I already do."

David: "Are you sure or are you trained to say that?"

Me:

David: "You weren't listening to me and I was just trying to get your attention. If I knew you were going to act like that, I wouldn't have even tried. I just touched your hand and you recoil like I'm some monster."

The bell rings and I rush out before he can get another word in. He must definitely think I'm a freak. I wish I could go back in time, I would've handled it a lot better. I need a time machine and an aspirin. My head is pounding. I should go home.

**FRIEND **

"Melinda!"

I stopped walking and slowly turned in a circle. The beginning of a smile tipped the corners of my mouth.

Me: "Mr. Freeman."

Mr. Freeman: "I thought for a second you forgot about me. I haven't seen you around, I thought you'll stop by for lunch—draw a few trees or what not, rejoin the adventure."

My brief period of mirth vanished

Me: "I have a class during your lunch period."

His face fell for a second and then suddenly lit with joy. "Some students are pushing for an afterschool art class. We written a few letters to the board—we're just waiting for an approval. If we get this then there'll be no excuse. You'll have to reopen that door of imagination. I have faith in you Melinda."

He's the only one I thought. Although, I doubted his logic, a sense of strength came to me, as my despair lessened bit by bit.

I nodded, even with my new- found hope. I don't know why. Maybe it was out of habit or maybe I didn't yet trust myself to speak.

Mr. freeman placed a hand on my shoulder, gave it a small squeeze, and delivered a tensed smile. "You seem better, freer even, but not totally. Remember I'm always here to listen. We have to remove those shackles of yours. It's causing you to slouch, and I want you as tall as those trees you draw."

Mr. freeman seems to be cracking up, but I don't care. He's my only true friend, and so I accept him.

That last day of school when I told him about what happened, he didn't judge me, he didn't ask me a million and one questions like my parents did. He just listened and passed me tissues whenever one was needed.

I wanted to thank, and assure him that I'll be the first one walking into his afterschool class, but I couldn't. Huge tears flowed freely down my face, making me incapable of speech.

Mr. Freeman: "Your halfway there." He pulls out a tissue and places it neatly into my hands. "You never know when you're going to need that."

I scuffle a small laugh

Mr. Freeman: "Take care Melinda, I'll see you soon."

He hikes through a mall of students coming out of class. I stand where I am, sniffing and wiping away the constant water from my eyes. I bent my head to study my hands for a while before looking up and taking notice to David. His eyes brimmed with tenderness and worry which made me do something so shocking, so unbelievable that my heart almost leapt out of my chest and my body trembled from head to toe.

I flung my arms around David's neck and clung to him like he was my only hope for survival. He wrapped his arms around me and whispered something that made me cry even harder "I'm sorry."

His apology held more than one meaning. I appreciated it.

It took me a minute to compose myself and carefully detach my arms from around his neck. My breath quickened, and my cheeks became warm. I wanted to say something, anything, but my mind had immediately reduced to a hockey puck—frozen and dense. I just stood there spellbound under his watch, until he hastily shifted his gaze. My eyes follow suit and my body stiffen instantly.

Mr. Neck: "Petrakis! Sordino! Hustle over here!"

We walk towards him very slowly. It's the wrong thing to do. His face turns a darker shade of purple by the second, and he reminds me of a volcano. He's ready to blow.

"I should report you two for cutting class. I expected this much from Sordino, but Petrakis…. Let's see how you can talk your way out of this one. I bet daddy—"

David: "I won't try to talk my way out of anything. If I'm at fault then I'll face the consequences. But since I—we didn't do anything wrong, there's no point in discussing this any further."

Mr. Neck: "I found you both in the hallway cutting class!"

David: "No, you found us both in the hallway, but not cutting a class. Melinda and I have lunch at this time. We were just heading to the science room and we'll like to get there before lunch ends, so unless your planning on escorting us then I think we should be on our way."

Mr. Neck stood there, blank, shaken, and very tongue-tied. His voice became hoarse. "You have an excuse for everything, don't you?"

I suppress a giggle and look at David with amused wonder. Did he really have an excuse for everything? I never noticed.

**Please review**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own Speak. The author of Speak is Laurie Halse Anderson.

Author note: Hello readers! I'm back again with another chapter. Hope you enjoy it. Please review!

**SAINTS NO MORE**

It's been almost a week since the encounter with David and I haven't even seen or talked to him yet. I don't know why but I felt the need to avoid him. That day we embrace in the hallway, I'm not going to lie, I felt so much better.

Proof…I showed up to Mr. Neck's class.

But after ninth period something changed. A thought rushed to me like a dart on a dartboard, flying towards its mark. David is way smarter than me, way saner, and just way better…in, well everything. I'm damaged goods. Who in their right mind would want that? I know I wouldn't. Imagine dealing with a girl who couldn't even deal with herself half the time. My parents are lost cases; they're stuck with me. But David is not. He's a good person, and a cool friend. There's no way I could lead him on like that, so I decide for once to be the good guy. For a week now I've cut every class I had with him. I don't even go to lunch anymore. I hang out in Mr. Freeman's art class. My job is to go around the room and see if his students need creative help. I play as second teacher now, except without the pay.

The loud speaker sputters alive and static fills the room. Principle/principle voice rings through the metal box. Everyone quiets down. It must be important.

"Students please listen. This is an important announcement involving the school's name. We can no longer be called the Saints. I know this comes as shock to you all, but this is a public school and religion is not permitted. Sorry.

I sigh. The school board must not be too bright. Didn't they realize that as long as there are tests, there _will_ be prayer in public school? It's sad, but a known fact. The freshman class is going wild with anger. "That's the only reason why I came to this school," shouts a boy in the back. "What about the cheers?" cries a girl sitting beside him. I brought a hand up to stifle a laugh and continued circling the room. I'm glad I don't have to listen to that god -awful cheer anymore.

We are the saints we can't be taint. The only way you'll beat us is if you try to cheat us.

Go saints go…the team was way below. I'm glad they changed the name, because the saints put us to shame. Go saints…go!

I should try out for the cheerleading squad….

**COOKING**

Rachel/Rachelle invited me shopping on Saturday, and there happens to be a twilight zone marathon that day. I don't want to go. I wish I could cancel on her, but I don't think I have the guts to do it. My fingers danced on top of the kitchen table as I waited for the perfect time to escape. Dad made lasagna. It looks nasty and smells disgusting. I held my breath every few minutes to keep from throwing up at the dinner table. I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

Dad: "How is it? I tried to follow the directions in the cookbook. Worked all day on it too."

Mom: "Its better. You could have added more cheese. But what else did you put in it? It tastes a little funny."

Dad doesn't say anything. He just looks down at his plate. I can tell he didn't follow every step in the recipe. He probably added something in it, like a secret ingredient. I push the plate away and stand from the table. I couldn't take a chance eating his food. I missed too many days out of school already, and couldn't afford to miss anymore.

Mom: "You're done?"

Me: "Um… yeah… The lasagna is delicious dad, but I can't eat another bite."

Mom: "It doesn't even look like you touched it. Are you sick honey? Are you feeling okay? What's wrong?"

I make up some lame excuse about homework, and run upstairs to my sanctuary.

I lie across my bed and pull out my art supplies. Mr. Freeman suggested that I paint a different picture, dance to a new tune of inspiration, (Whatever that means). Once again my hand sunk to the bottom of the punctured globe, and I fished out my grand destiny… windows.

I scrunched up my face. How can you express yourself through windows? I wanted to tell him that it wasn't possible, that I needed a new project, but I held my tongue. If I knew Mr. Freeman well enough, (and I did); he would talk me to death about not opening my mind wide enough to possibilities. And I wasn't in the mood for that.

I sketched a house with huge glass windows smudged with fingerprints, and layered with dust. It looks something like my windows, but a little cleaner. The frames encircling it had a unique pattern of flowers engraved into the wooding. It looked beautiful. I'm proud of it.

Mom: "Melinda can you come down stairs?"

I wanted to tell her no, but I knew that'll be a bad idea. I placed my pencil and notepad under my pillow, and then hesitantly went down stairs. I noticed mom using that voice again, the one I hate; and that must only mean one thing, she's already seen my report card.

Me: "What's wrong?"

Dad: "Did you hear that? She asks what's wrong. I think you know young lady. Do I look stupid to you?"

I don't answer.

Dad waves a thin sheet of paper in my face. Yup, it's my report card.

Dad: "Why are you cutting classes again? I thought we were getting pass all of this. Maybe we should…I don't even know anymore."

I focus my attention on mom. She looks like she's on the verge of tears. I feel sorry for her.

Mom: "Maybe I should schedule an appointment with the psychiatrist. It's obvious we can't handle this by ourselves, she needs a professional."

I love it when my parents talk about me like I'm not even there. If they're goal is to make me feel invisible, then they succeeded with flying colors.

I took turns staring into the eyes of my "parents," until I couldn't take it anymore. I had to say something. I had to speak.

But my throat closes up…

I'm such a freak.

**Please review**


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Speak. The author of Speak is Laurie Halse Anderson.

Author note: Hello readers! I'm back again with another chapter. Sorry it took me so long to update. I've been extremely busy with school. Three class projects can be a killer. Please review and please enjoy.

**THE SHOPPING TRIP**

I sit down at a lonely bench, and wait for Rachel/Rachelle to come back with the ice creams. She's been gone for a while, but I guess that's only because the line was so long. I offered to accompany her, but she refused, and told me to find a seat instead. I didn't complain.

It's been a while since I've been to the mall. I missed it. The noisy, clattering crowd, the horde of grimy children scurrying away from their parents, the thong of strangers hurrying by, hoping to snatch up the latest sale items, the decorations, and the overwhelming smell of freshly baked fries coated with a heap of salt. I really did miss the mall.

About fifteen minutes later, Rachel/Rachelle flops down beside me and hands me a strawberry cone. I can't believe she still remembers my favorite favor ice cream. I thought she would've forgotten.

Rachel/Rachelle: "I'm sorry it took me so long. I ran into Ivy on my way coming to find you."

Me: "I haven't seen her lately."

Rachel/Rachelle: "You neither— I mean I save you a seat everyday at lunch, but you're always a no-show."

I have a headache now, so instead of talking, I stare intently at my ice cream cone. It's melting. I lick the sticky substance from off my hand, and then turned to look at Rachel directly. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn't. I really hope she isn't expecting me to start off the conversation, because she'll be in for disappointed. I haven't had a real conversation in months. I'm no good at it.

"What happened to you—what Andy did—It's horrible. I can't believe I didn't believe you. I can't believe that you tried to warn me about him. I was so mean to you. Andy is a monster and I—"

I held up a hand to stop her in mid-sentence. I don't like to hear his name. I don't like to be reminded of what he's done, and I just want to forget that it ever happened. Why is everyone trying to refresh my memory? Why is everyone trying to make me remember?

I felt my insides freeze over, as my headache sharpened. I didn't know what was happening, until I tasted metal overpowering the strawberry inside of my mouth. I clamped my eyes shut to dissipate the pain. It helped a little.

Rachel/Rachelle: "Mel! Your lip is bleeding!"

I opened my eyes to see Rachel franticly unwrapping a napkin that looped around her vanilla cone. She tries to hand it to me, but I don't take it. I instead unwrap my own napkin, and carefully pat dry my lip.

"You needed yours," was all I could say.

She looks down at her hands and wipes them clean. "I didn't even notice," she says "I was too busy focusing on you."

For the rest of the shopping trip, we stayed silent. Rachel/Rachelle brought three designer outfits, a hat and Swede boots.

I didn't get anything.

**CONFRONTATION**

seems frustrated. She thinks our reading and writing skills are poor— and the way we speak is plain horrible. She says it's embarrassing as an English teacher, and its time for a change. I think it's a waste of time. Even if you do learn to speak correct English, whom are you going to speak it to?

Ms. Walter hands out loose- leaf paper to the class, and asks us to write a sentence about anything, and it's to be graded. I write, "Y r we righting sentenceses like were in kindergarten?"

I hope she grades on effort, because I put my all into writing that sentence.

I stand in the bathroom, and wait for the period to end. I have home economics class right now, but I don't feel like going. I rather spend my time sitting on top of a germ infested toilet seat, than confront David. I'm such a loser.

Someone stalks into my ditching domain. I peak a look from behind the bathroom stall, and pray that it isn't a teacher.

Me: "Hi."

Ivy: "Hey, whatcha doing in here?"

Me: "Um, using it…"

Ivy: "…To cut class."

Busted…

"You know there's teachers patrolling the halls. They're looking for all students without a pass. They're coming in here too, you know. Come on, " she says, face pressed against the mirror. "I'll walk you to class."

Mr. Copper/ Mr. papier-mâché doesn't say anything to me. I just walked into his class late, and he doesn't even give me a demerit.

I can get use to this.

I park near David and watch as he label a few cans with a black permanent marker.

David: "Welcome back."

He's mad; his voice sounds tense.

Me: "It's good to be back."

David: "Sure."

Me: "Um, what are we doing?"

He looks at me surprised. "You actually care? Because lately I've been getting the feeling that you don't."

It's obvious that I'm annoying him, so I pull out a piece of paper to draw on instead. From the corner of my eye, I can see him glancing in my direction, but I pretend not to notice. David taps me on my hand after only five minutes of complete muteness.

I guess he's not use to handling the quiet. At least not like I can.

I look into his face expectantly. He smiles, his hand still on top of mine.

David: "We have to label the cans with words we feel and then place them in this sack." [He lifts the sack up so I can see, lowers it back onto the table, and hands me a purple marker].

Me: "What's the point of this?"

David: "Well, we're measuring stress, so I guess the point of this is to weigh how heavy a person's stress can be…the good and the bad."

I nod my head, and wait for him to start first; but the bell rings. We walk out into the hall, our shoulders slightly touching.

David: "I guess we'll finish this tomorrow?"

Me:

David: "Your coming…right?"

I shrug my shoulders. I never make a promise I can't keep.

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	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own Speak. The author of Speak is Laurie Halse Anderson.

Author note: Hello readers! I'm sorry it took so long to update. My schedule has been extremely hectic, with school, parents and a whole lot of other personal stuff. I just found a bit of free time, so I decide to write and post a new chapter. Please review and please enjoy! Thanks!

**THE OATH**

Dad came home from work before mom again. He's in the kitchen warming up food. I can hear him mashing the buttons on the microwave. I bet he's warming up the last of the leftovers from two nights ago.

Careful not to alert him to my presence, I sneak into the living room and sit on the couch. Dad sees me and almost drops his plate. I must have scared him.

Dad: "I thought you were upstairs."

Me: "I was."

He sits down on the white sofa at the opposite end. He doesn't feel comfortable around me. His leg keeps jiggling and his face keeps scrunching up with distaste. He doesn't even eat his meatloaf. I think I caused him to lose his appetite.

Me: "You came home early."

Dad:

Me: "So…are you still mad?"

His eyes irritated and narrow since he arrived from work, automatically became soft. I watch as he forks the meatloaf, turning it into a bunch of tiny pieces. Will he ever respond to me? I doubt it. My courage falters.

I stand up; stuff my hands deep into my pockets, and swallow hard to bite back tears. Dad must have noticed my inner struggle, because he finally clears his throat; ready to say something.

Dad: "Melinda, I'm not mad at you. You look tired, go to bed."

I couldn't agree with him more. I am tired. I read somewhere that caring too much can take a toll on people; maybe I'm one of those people. Maybe I care too much. Maybe I should just stop.

I bolt up the stairs, slam the door and flopped onto bed.

This is the day that I Melinda Sordino simply stops caring.

**HOPE**

My pledge to stop caring lasted for only about a week and somehow I'm more tired than I was before. Mom is worried. She keeps trying to convince me to see a doctor, but I don't budge. I rather serve detention everyday with Mr. Neck; staring up at his nose hairs, than let a stranger try to analyze me (and that's saying something). Every time mom brings up the subject, dad just rolls his eyes and stalks away.

My parents are fighting. And I'm miserable. Their arguments are almost always about me. I want to scream and tell them that I'm not worth it. Dad would probably agree, but I doubt mom would; and that will lead to another argument, so I don't say anything. I keep my mouth shut and play dumb. It's better to pretend not to know what's going on. I don't want my parents to fight about me behind my back. That'll just make things worst… for me… and for them.

I told David about my parents squabbling like a bunch of two six year olds. I have no idea why, but I did. It's like I can't keep stuff to myself anymore. It's strange, but I can finally see a little of my old self sliding back out into the open. The problem is, it slips back in once David and me are apart. I still never told him about what happened last summer though. I know he knows, but he never mentions it. I like that. He makes me feel normal. It's weird since I'm anything but normal. I'm damaged beyond repair. I'm like a shattered vase. You can try to glue the pieces back together, but it'll never be the same. I'll never be the same.

Mr. Neck: "What are you doing?"

I stop drawing and look up at Mr. Neck's face. He's mad. I learned from home ec that counting to ten is best thing to do when controlling your temper. Mr. Neck looks really mad. Maybe he should count to one hundred.

Mr. Neck: "Does this look like art class to you?"

Me:

He snatches my paper and rips it to shreds. A thin trickle of saliva dribbles from his mouth, and his eyes stabs into me like a 3-inch steak knife. Mr. Neck looks hungry and now I'm starting to think that that turkey sandwich he just wolfed down wasn't enough.

"Sordino, you're really pushing it, aren't you?" He says, "I hate to repeat myself so I'm going to say this just once. Get you act together Sordino, or else."

It's rare to hear a teacher threaten a student, but with Mr. Neck it's nothing out of the ordinary. The entire class continued on with their work as if nothing had happened. I guess I'm not the only one use to Mr. Neck's gentle persona.

Mr. Neck: "I want a five page report on the history of education and egalitarianism in America. The paper is to be on my desk by Monday. No exceptions. You can't weasel your way out of this. You fail my class you're looking at a whole two months in summer school."

Mr. Neck thinks he's getting to me. But he's not. Spending two months in summer school is way better than sitting two lonely months at home watching daytime reruns. I lower my head onto the table and draw shapeless patterns on my arms. Lets see him tear this.

**A DIFFICULT DECISION**

The lunchroom is loud. David is talking. And I can't hear a word of it. I slide closer, scan for his eyes, and then lay my head on his arm. His eyes seem to be okay, so I didn't think he'd mind, but his body language told me differently.

Me: "What?"

David: "I want to ask you something."

This is it. He's finally going to ask. I hold my breath and cross my arms across my chest to stay in control. I can't freak out now. I have to stay calm.

Me: "What is it?"

He doesn't say anything for a long time. My body stiffens. The suspense is terrible. I hope it doesn't last.

David: "My sister's birthday is on Friday so my parents are throwing a party for her at the skating park—its mostly going to be family there, but—you wanna go?"

What do I say? He's expecting an answer. I pat his hand and force a smile. I want to go, but am I ready? I divert my attention from David and browse the cafeteria. I can sense someone's eyes on me, staring.

It's Rachel/Rachelle. She's sitting two tables down from me. Her mouth is hanging wide open and her eyes are bulging straight out of her head. She gives me thumbs up, a wink and then mouths a "later" in my direction. I shrug my shoulders before turning back to David. I can't keep staling anymore. He's expecting an answer.

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